Then Now Soon
by Rednih
Summary: The moments not written down in The Winchester Gospel are many and varied. Spin-Off of 'Vision,' and part of the 'Adam Lives!Verse.'
1. Then Adam

Disclaimer: Supernatural and certain characters belong to Eric Kripke and Warner Brothers. No profit is gained from this writing, only, hopefully, enjoyment.

He thinks he's finally starting to win the no-pets argument. Any day now, Mom's gonna come home from work and sigh and pretend she's all put out, but she'll give in. He can tell.

He changes his mind, though, when his birthday does roll around. He's old enough now, and he knows what it means. Mom's always saying how he's a good kid and she knows he works hard at school and around the house. It's just the two of them, but. . .

Maybe it doesn't have to be that way.

It's kinda weird, no, _really_ weird. Mom asks for the day off from work, and she doesn't even put up a fight when he says he doesn't want to go to school that day. She just nods, and goes back to cooking. He doesn't know what's going to happen, and he really regrets begging for this now.

He waits on the couch, flipping through the channels nonstop and bouncing his leg up and down. Their street isn't all that busy usually, but he swears it's like a parade out there today. Cars and trucks zoom past and even a semi at one point. None of them stop.

It's about 3:30, and Mom's still in the kitchen, and he's sweated through his good shirt and bitten all his nails down so far his fingers ache. He knows he's messed up, but he's too scared to go in and tell his mom sorry. What if she starts crying, or yells at him for being a stupid, selfish brat?

He should've just gone with the dog.

Another car comes rumbling down the street, and he knows he shouldn't get excited. He can't help it, though. He holds his breath, hoping it'll stop and praying it'll be just like all the rest and keeping his fingers crossed.

It doesn't keep going. The sound comes closer and it gets louder and louder. He can't tell if it actually is a car or some big truck. Whatever it is rumbles real close outside for a minute, on the street, next to the sidewalk. He finally can't stand it any longer and runs over to the window with the remote still in his hand. When he pulls the curtains back to peek, his hands are all sweaty so he rubs them dry on his nice pants and ends up dropping the remote. It sounds really loud because the rumbling of that car has stopped. It is a car, a huge old black one. It's not broken down or anything, though, looks pretty cool actually.

Suddenly his mom's there and she's looking out at the car, too. She sighs and puts her hands on his shoulders, starts moving him to the front door. His mom opens it and they step outside onto the porch. He turns to look back into the house and realizes the remote's still on the floor and he left the TV turned to some stupid action flick.

But then a car door slams shut and when he looks, he sees some guy standing there. And the guy kinda looks just as freaked out as Adam is.

"Come on up, John," his mom calls out. She sounds tired, and she squeezes Adam's shoulders as the guy nods and starts walking up the stone path. He sneaks a look at her face real quick, and she doesn't look mad at all.

"Kate," the guy says, stopping at the bottom of the stairs and just looking up.

"Hello, John," Mom replies. She squeezes his shoulders again and then says, "Adam, this is John Winchester. . . your father. John, meet your son."

He can't help it. He looks down at the porch, and his shoes. He's acting like baby, and he's the one who wanted this in the first place.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Adam," the guy says. Adam looks up, and tries to smile. The guy, John, he's trying to smile too, but it just makes him look like he's about to throw up.

That's about how Adam feels too.

"Cool car," he says, jerking his chin at it. That makes John's smile more real, and Adam's just glad he didn't come off like a stupid kid.

"Well, let's go inside," his mom suggests. She lets go of him and turns. Adam isn't sure if he should go ahead of John or behind him, but as the guy starts up the stairs he moves inside first. He waits for him, though, and locks the door once they're all inside. When he turns around, John's still standing there and he's got a funny look on his face.

Adam shrugs, glances at the guy's face again before looking down at the floor. Mom's already back in the kitchen, and he's kinda glad now that he couldn't eat anything before. She must have made a lot of food for John, and the guy's big all right, but. . . not big enough to eat it all.

"You always lock the door?" John asks quietly. His voice is pretty low, deep. Adam kinda smiles when he thinks it matches the car's rumble.

"Um, yes," Adam answers. "Mom grew up in a big city, I guess." He shrugs again, glances at John's face. "She told me to always keep it locked."

"So you do," John finishes. There's something about the way he says it, so Adam looks up again.

"Yeah."

John nods and smiles again, then gestures with his arm for Adam to go first.

"Where would you prefer to sit, John?" Mom asks once they're at the table. There's food everywhere, and place settings for three.

"Here's fine," John says, putting his hand on the back of the chair closest to the doorway.

Mom smiles a little and reaches over to move a wine glass to that spot. "That's where Adam usually sits," she says, before going back into the kitchen to grab something else.

John looks over at him with one raised eyebrow and Adam's sorta jealous cos he's always wanted to be able to do that.

" 'M taking your spot?" he asks, and Adam gets what he's asking.

He shakes his head and walks over to the other side of the table. "It's no big deal," he tells him. "I don't mind."

"Good view of the TV from here," John says with a smile. He hasn't made any move to sit down, so Adam doesn't either.

"Good view of the door, too," Adam responds.

Instead of chuckling or smiling some more like Adam had intended, John just looks at him.

"What can I get you to drink?" Mom's voice calls out from the kitchen. Adam turns to look and sees her standing in the doorway with a weird expression on her face.

"Water's just fine," John answers.

"Adam, milk?" she asks, looking at him.

"Yes, please," he says and she smiles back at him.

"Coming right up," she replies, taking off again.

Adam turns back to look at John, just in time to see the guy finish ripping at a fingernail with his teeth. John gives one of those embarrassed smiles everyone has and then pulls the bit of nail out of his mouth.

"Bad habit," is all the guy says, shrugging.

Adam swallows and looks down at the table again.


	2. Then Dean

Disclaimer: Supernatural and certain characters belong to Eric Kripke and Warner Brothers. No profit is gained from this writing, only, hopefully, enjoyment.

He shuts the alarm off after the first beep, and carefully slides out of the bed. Sammy's hogging both the middle and the other side again, which means the little brat must've sneaked over after Dean fell asleep. Kid's getting too old for that kind of stuff, and he knows he's gonna have to make him quit it before Dad gets back.

The room's freezing and for a second when he puts his feet on the floor, it's so cold he's afraid they're gonna stick there permanently. He grits his teeth and dashes across the hall and into the bathroom, turning the shower on before using the toilet and then brushing the awful taste out of his mouth. When he's done, the water's finally starting to warm up and he jumps in.

He wants to stay in there till it starts getting cold again, but he doesn't. He finishes quickly and climbs out, stepping onto the rough towel they're using as a bath rug. Then he reaches over to snag his own still-damp, sandpaper towel and scratches himself dry. He carefully fits it back along the tiny window sill next to Sam's and hurries across the still shockingly cold floor out into the other room again.

Sammy's still wheezing away in his sleep, so Dean rustles through the stack of clean clothes they've piled on the chair and gets dressed as quick as he can. He even puts an extra pair of socks on, and figures no one'll be too upset about it. Dad's always harping on stuff like that, but Sammy can't really wear Dean's stuff yet anyway. Well, he _can_; he just doesn't like to.

Dean looks at the clock and sighs. Moving to the bed, he bends down and shakes Sam till the kid groans and starts slapping at him. Then Dean smacks him on the butt and jerks the covers down. Sammy shouts out a "Hey!" and squishes himself down to where he can wrap his arms around his legs.

"Get up, Doofus!" Dean tells him, pushing and shoving at him with his hands.

"Don't wanna," Sammy whines, and Dean can already tell today's gonna suck big time. Hell, he knew two weeks ago today was gonna suck ass. A whiny Sam is probably gonna be one of the better things about today.

Finally the kid just sighs and sits up. Dean nearly busts a gut at the way Sammy's hair is sticking up, but catches himself in time. Nothing makes the tantrums and pouting worse than Sam thinking he's being made fun of, even _if_ the little shit never plays by the same rule. He laughs when Dean screws up, but God forbid Sammy ever be the punch line.

He feels guilty just thinking that, and goes over to sit on the other bed. He drags his skuzzy book bag up and starts going through his homework real quick. Sam yawns and slumps to his feet.

"Hot water?" Kid grunts out, doubtfully.

"No, I fuckin' used it all," Dean snaps sarcastically. He can't look up after saying it, but Sammy's bare feet only pause for a second before continuing their shuffle to the bathroom anyway.

He hates English, and writing especially, and he has the feeling he's gonna flunk that class at this school. The teacher's one of those mean ol' broads who gets all hung up on spelling and class participation. If you don't talk, you don't get points. If you don't get any points. . . you fail.

Dean's gonna fail, but then again maybe not. They probably won't be here long enough for him to flunk out. They usually aren't.

Sam takes about ten minutes in the bathroom which is shockingly short. Sometimes Dean actually has to go in there and drag the kid out, but not today. He's still working on the stupid vocab words for Ms. Howerdale, when the bathroom door opens and Sam walks out already fully dressed. His hair isn't combed, though.

"Do something with your hair," Dean calls out, finishing his example of the correct use of the word 'mortuary.' Ol' battle axe is gonna love that one. "Looks like you've got a wombat livin' on top o' your head."

He glances up to see Sammy's reaction, and sure enough it's the puckered-up bitch face.

"Shut up, Dean," Kid comes back with, and Dean huffs.

"Nice comeback, Lame-o. You should do stand-up." He's working on another sentence, this time for 'mosaic,' so he misses seeing it, but he sure as hell _hears_ the shoe hitting the wall to his right. He feels it pass by, too, and looks down at where it's landed before slowly lifting his head.

Sam's standing there with his hands on his little eight-year-old hips, glaring at Dean like he just. . . trashed Sammy's favorite book, or told a lie to an adult.

"What the hell was that for?" Dean demands, slamming his book down on the bed and getting up. "How many times I gotta tell ya not to break stuff, Sammy? Place costs money. You got money to fix that dent?" he asks, pointing back at the wall where, sure enough, there is now a shoe-shaped dent.

But Sammy, he just lifts his chin and folds his arms across his chest and scrunches up his eyes some more.

"What?" Dean shouts at him. "What's wrong with you? Throwing temper tantrums like a little girl," he adds cruelly. "Dad woulda hauled your butt outside by now."

"Well, Dad's not here, is he?" Sam snaps back. "Quit being mean just cos you're hurt."

"What?" he asks, confused.

Sammy sighs and his shoulders slump. He drops his arms down to his sides and suddenly it's not mad-Sammy anymore. It's sad-Sammy.

"It's your birthday, Dean," Kid says, like Dean has no clue when his own birthday is.

"Yeah, so what?" he responds, turning around and going over to stuff all his books back in his bag.

"_Sooooo_," Sammy insists, drawing the word out stupidly, "Dad promised he'd be here and he isn't. He broke his promise, Dean. I heard him say it."

"Cos you were spying again like a little creep," Dean remarks.

"Was not."

"Was so! I heard you. You always make too much noise." Sammy's back to being mad, so Dean turns around to face him again. "Dad heard you too. He thought it was funny."

"He did _not_!" Sam yells, and damn if the kid isn't actually really upset. "Take that back!" And then out of the blue, Sam starts banging on Dean with his fists. He even manages to land a good hit to the gut, and Dean doubles over.

"Jesus, fine," he grunts out, "he didn't. Nothing. . . funny at all." Dean takes a tentative breath and stands up straight again, wincing at the pain. "Christ, Sammy."

Kid's real quiet, and Dean can already tell what's coming, before Sammy even moves an inch.

"I'm sorry," Sam cries out, hurrying over and wrapping his stupid, pudgy arms around Dean right where he just socked him in the stomach. It really fuckin' hurts, but. . .

Sammy's actually crying, so. . .

"It's okay," Dean tells him softly. "It doesn't matter, all right? I'm not mad."

There's breath against his chest, and Sammy's saying something, but Dean can't hear what it is.

"What?" he asks, messing with the kid's hair cos it's right there and _seriously_ is a disaster. "Didn't catch that, Goober."

Sam lifts his head up to look Dean in the eyes, and luckily there's no snot, but his face is sure all wet and splotchy. He's back to looking way too sad for an eight-year-old, and Dean cannot _wait_ for the mood swings to disappear. Right now, it's like one of those stupid guessing games the kid's always trying to get him to play on long drives. He feels like every second he's gotta be ready to deal with a different 'Sam.' Kid wears him out.

"I said, 'You're still sad.'" He squeezes Dean around the middle and it's difficult, but Dean manages to keep his face calm despite the ache that causes. "It's okay to be sad, Dean," Sammy tells him, using that weird, smarter-than-you voice again.

He wants to roll his eyes and push the kid away for saying stupid stuff, but it's getting to be about time to leave for school and he doesn't want to fight anymore.

"I know it is, Sammy," he finally agrees. "I'm not sad, though."

And it's weird cos Sam goes still for a little bit, a few seconds or something, not that long really. But it's definitely weird cos Sam's always moving around, except when he's sleeping, and even then he tosses and turns and kicks and whaps Dean in the head with his pointy elbows.

Kid's still looking up at him and Dean's getting really uncomfortable with all the clinging.

"Happy Birthday, Dean," Sammy abruptly says.

"Thanks, Sam." He waits a moment, and then starts tickling Sam's side with his right hand. Kid squirms and giggles, and runs away. "Now get your crap ready, Squirt, or we'll be late for school!"

Sam just sticks his tongue out at him.


	3. Then Sam

Disclaimer: Supernatural and certain characters belong to Eric Kripke and Warner Brothers. No profit is gained from this writing, only, hopefully, enjoyment.

Dad's not here. Nothing new there, though. Sam would have been surprised if he _were_.

Dean's in the kitchen making breakfast, something fried by the smell of it. Sam hopes there's bacon, the real stuff, not that fake crap. With Dean working full-time now, they have more money. Plus, it keeps him out of the house late enough for Sam to finish his homework after school without interruption.

Dean's not so good at being quiet, and Sam's not so. . . patient when it comes time to do some reading. He likes learning, always has. He loves reading and writing and figuring and studying. He's good at it, too, and knows he isn't bragging or exaggerating. He is good at that kind of stuff.

His teachers usually warm up to him pretty quickly, too, once he's been in school long enough to turn in a few assignments. If it's English, or Social Studies, he can usually impress them by the second class. Math takes longer, and science. He works harder in those four classes than in the rest. Chorus or art or that junk is useless to him, so he hides in the background. P.E. is like a test of how good an actor he can be. Each class, he has to figure out what the other kids know and what they don't and then copy them.

He can. . . excel in English, and Math, and Science, and Social Studies. He can't in P.E. Looking too good there, at least for a freaky, new kid, would be a disaster. He'd get beaten up every day! No, better to just pretend.

He's not Dean, after all.

"Hey, look!" Dean calls out when Sam walks into the tiny kitchen. He goes to the stove and looks over Dean's shoulder into the skillet. Pointing with the spatula, Dean crows, "It's a freakin' cactus, Sammy! I didn't even do that intentionally. That's like. . . zen pancake-making, isn't it?" He pulls his face into a mask of calm wisdom or something, which actually makes him look a lot like Pastor Jim. "You do not make the pancake to eat," Dean intones solemnly. "The pancake makes itself to be eaten."

Sam snorts and Dean turns to share a look of amusement with him. "Very deep, Dean," he tells him.

Dean grins. "What can I say? Sometimes these things just come to me." He goes back to making up the rest of the batter, flipping the delicious-smelling pancakes like a pro. Sam drifts over to go sit at the table in the corner, and hurries the last few steps when he spots the plate resting in the middle. Lying on a bed of grease-soaked paper towel are strips and strips of delicious, salty, crispy, beautiful _bacon_. Real stuff. All curled and brown, with touches of black, and here and there a spot of pink. Sam snaps his teeth together embarrassingly fast when he feels drool start to slide out of the corner of his mouth. He casts a quick glance back at Dean, but he's too busy humming and seeing how high he can flip the last pancake to be paying any attention to what Sam's doing at the moment.

He'd hoped for bacon, had even kind of expected it and was prepared to sulk a little if it hadn't been here. But it still surprises him. Sam looks over at Dean again, glancing up and then back down again quickly when he sees Dean turn, bringing over the big plate stacked high with hot, steaming pancakes. The table's already set, and when Sam makes room for the pancake plate by scooting the little tub of margarine and big bottle of syrup farther onto the table, he realizes with a shock that Dean even heated up the maple syrup. That really startles him cos it's Sam who likes his maple syrup hot, not Dean. It's one of the things he teases Sam about, in fact. When they're at diners for breakfast, Dean either makes fun of Sam's hair, the growling of his stomach, the way he always makes sure to say 'Thank you' to the waitress, his t-shirt that day, how short he is, the way he uses a knife and fork, or how he requests hot syrup for pancakes or waffles or French toast.

But as Dean drops into the chair across from him, Sam realizes that's just his brother for ya. He's annoying and rude and he thinks he's funny when he's not, and he goes on and on about stupid stuff like girls and car engines, but he's always there and he never forgets anything important. . . and most of the time the not-so-important stuff, either, like hot syrup or bacon, or. . .

"Got stuff for burgers tonight," Dean says around a mouthful of pancake. Sam looks up, chewing his own big bite of pancake, and Dean just laughs. Sam probably has syrup on his chin or around his mouth again. Happens every time and Dean always laughs, but today it doesn't annoy Sam like it usually does. He just goes on eating, and Dean grins again before catching and holding Sam's eyes as he tries to stuff a whole syrupy pancake inside his mouth.

"Ugh, Dean, _God_!" Sam exclaims, disgusted, and Dean frantically puts a hand over his stuffed mouth. His shoulders start shaking and his face is turning red, but it's not cos he's choking. He's laughing, the prick. Sam just shakes his head again and picks up another strip of bacon to munch on.

Less than 20 seconds later, Dean's chuckling loudly.

"That was a close one!" he overshares. "Nearly lost it when you made the bitch-face."

". . . didn't make a bitch-face," Sam can't help muttering, stabbing another soggy square of pancake angrily.

"Sure you did," Dean replies. "Why do you think I do that stuff?"

Sam looks up at a loss. "Cos you're a jerk?"

Dean just smirks.

It takes another few seconds, but Sam gets it eventually. When he does, he scoffs. "You _are _a jerk," he declares.

"Bitch-face," Dean retorts. "Funniest damn thing I've ever seen." He takes another forkful of pancake and a big bite of bacon before continuing. "Can't start the day without doing my brotherly duty. It'd be against _The Code_," he adds, and Sam drops his fork and glares at him for that.

"I was _six_!" Sam shouts. "How was I s'posed to know there wasn't- ?"

" -a friggin' Code of Brotherly Conduct?" Dean finishes, laughing. "C'mon, Sammy, that one's never getting old."

". . . already told Pastor Jim and Uncle Bobby," Sam mutters under his breath, picking up his fork again. He's got less than half an hour before he has to be ready for school, so there's no time left to dawdle - even if it is his birthday.

"Yeah, well," Dean starts, leaning back in his chair now that he's finished off his breakfast, "you ever get a girlfriend, I'll tell her too. Girl oughta know what kind of dork she's with." Sam glares at him again from under his bangs, but that just amuses Dean even more. "And, man, do I have plenty of stories! Whew-ee. Some real doozies too, like that time in Michigan when Mandy Parks started that rumor about how your- "

"Shut _up_, Dean!" Sam yells, cutting him off and going red from embarrassment. "That was just a stupid rumor. It never happened! Mandy Parks was a liar and nobody with a brain would believe what she said. . . about anything!"

Dean pointedly raises an eyebrow when Sam stops talking. "You done?" he asks with a smirk.

Sam just sighs and goes back to eating. His pancakes and syrup are cold now, and his bacon doesn't seem all that appealing anymore, either.

Stupid Dean.

"Anyway," Dean says, picking up his plate and getting to his feet. He walks over to the sink and runs water over the plate before coming back and clearing the table. "Like I was saying earlier, I got hamburger and buns and all the fixings, so no piddling behind after school, okay?" Dean's back is to him as he says all this, but Sam knows it for what it is.

Olive branch. Dean's way of apologizing.

"I got it all worked out at the garage, so I'll be back 'round 4:30 today 'stead of six."

Sam had finished eating while Dean was talking, so he gets up and walks over to stand next to him at the sink.

Neither of them says anything right away, but when Dean finishes soaping up the dishes and turns the water on to rinse them off, he nudges Sam with his elbow.

"You want fries or onion rings?" he asks quietly, and Sam's a little stunned.

"Uh, onion rings," he says, watching Dean's face. But Dean just nods, not getting what Sam's trying to tell him. "We gonna train tonight?" he asks carefully as Dean goes about rinsing off the skillet.

"Nah, not tonight, Sammy. Tonight's movie night. 'Sides, not every day my only brother turns 12. We can go one night without." Dean shoots him a look as he sets the clean skillet in the drainer.

Sam smiles, and feels like hugging Dean, but doesn't. He's 12 years old now.

Twelve-year-olds don't do that stuff, so Sam just says, "Cool. Thanks, Dean," and leaves the kitchen.


	4. Now Adam

Disclaimer: Supernatural and certain characters belong to Eric Kripke and Warner Brothers. No profit is gained from this writing, only, hopefully, enjoyment.

First it's happening only in dreams, and so Adam doesn't really think anything of it. No big deal. Dreams are weird, and everybody knows that. Talking to some stranger in a dream, the same stranger, over and over again? Just weird, is all, nothing to worry about.

It's when it starts happening while he's awake that things get out of hand. He's got three-plus hours of classes five mornings a week, and he's averaging four late afternoon to closing shifts behind the bar just off the campus drag. He doesn't have time for shit like this.

He also doesn't know what the fuck he's supposed to do about it. He's not a hunter, not really. Oh, he knows standard lore and enough protective measures to have freaked every single one of his, at last count, _nine_ roommates right the fuck out, but Adam isn't. . . he's not into that shit. He doesn't want to be, hasn't ever been, and _will _never be, especially after these last few years and seeing what that kind of life has done to. . . his father, Sam, Bobby.

Not after everything that's- not with what _Dean's_ been through.

Adam isn't a hunter, and he hates the whole life and how everything about it just fucks up the people living it. But all of this is also exactly why he now finds himself freaking out over some used-to-be-just-dreams-but-now-hallucinations. He hates hunting, but what do you do when something needs. . . well, not hunted, but definitely figured out and addressed? Rectified. Remedied. Sorted out and put to bed, so Adam can get on with living his normal life in peace, only disturbed by terrifying stories and reminiscences and not. . .

Eight o'clock rolls around and the crowd in the bar starts picking up. Things get busier, and it's 9:03 when Adam's shouting down to Carrie that he's going into the back for more Heineken. He's out in the hallway and it's loud, but still such a relief when compared to the shouting, singing, laughing, and talking of the main part of the bar. Adam keys himself into the storeroom and quickly heads down the small aisle to where he knows the beer is. It's there, high on the shelf, and he stretches out his hand to-

Like that time he got real sick as a kid and stood up too quickly: he fell down face first onto the floor.

Like what he imagines migraines must feel like, or what a hangover would be if he ever had more than three beers in a night.

Like that lost feeling whenever someone died.

Like that terrified shame he doesn't even think about lest someone clue in.

Like someone's just jacked into Adam's head and is messing around with the filing system it's taken almost 20 years to perfect.

**Such a thing is not Wrong, Adam**, the stranger says. The tone of it is odd, almost amused.

But also somehow most definitely _not_.

He's on the floor again, face first into the grime of the storeroom cement and panting from the shock. It hurts. It's _excruciating_.

"Wha- wh. . . ?"

**Love is a beautiful, Heavenly thing**, the stranger tells him. Again, the voice seems to be hinting at or referencing something, but Adam has neither a clue what the hell it is, nor wits enough about him to attempt to figure it out.

**To Love is to See the Face of God. Now, wouldn't _that _be a treat?** the stranger muses.

"_God_. . . !" Adam cries out, scraping his fingernails against the cement in the hopes of recovering some ability to think past the pain.

**Yes, and when you're ready _you and I_ shall meet. Or perhaps not. But just in case, Adam**, and it's as though the stranger in his head leans closer, **let me confide in you a Truth. Love is not Wrong, no matter where it Manifests. Never allow any Man to Speak otherwise to you.**

Adam pounds his fists against the cement, scraping and bloodying himself in an effort to just get away. He manages a deep breath, the first one in what feels like forever, but then the stranger is closing in again. There's the sense inside of a caress or at least an acknowledgement of some kind.

Something wet rolls down Adam's face and it's only when it falls to the cement and he sees it that he realizes his eyes are open. Blood, from his mouth, is now slipping and sliding to the storeroom floor, and Adam is hearing a voice inside his head.

Chewing on his lips and mouth to the point of dripping blood suddenly seems a lot less worrying in the face of just how fucking insane he must be in this moment.

**We Know what it is to Love, don't we, we two?** it says, in that same nearly-soft way. Certainly the stranger is understanding at least. Empathy, but not necessarily sympathy. **Sometimes unwillingly**, the stranger goes on, **when All would be easier if we were to just. . . stop our Love. Sometimes we wish our brothers to be different, or ourselves. Such a thing is not Wrong, Adam.**

All Adam can do is whine and cry in the back of his throat and drool blood down onto the floor. It still hurts, and it's not becoming numb. He tries and tries to move away or curl in on himself, but the flexing of his hands is all he can do.

**Keep what I have said in mind**, the stranger tells him, **and should the day come when I Call on you. . . remember it was the Truth I Spoke and that I Spoke it to you, Adam, and not. . . aloud or to anyone else. And it is within my Power to do so. Never mistake me.**

**I leave you as a Blessing. I can just as easily stay, should I so choose.**

And with that, the stranger's gone and Adam's face down on the floor once more. He comes to later, and one of the first things he does besides sit up is check the face of his watch.

9:04. And the second hand is still ticking in time, but now it's moving counter-clockwise.


End file.
